


Draw Down the Moon

by maktub



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Abuse, Animal Sacrifice, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maktub/pseuds/maktub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta's had some strange dreams lately, dreams that remind him of the Old Magic, the magic that ruined everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw Down the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally created for S2SL. I want to thank everyone who has read it there for their support and their comments. You are all wonderful people.

It’s dark.

 

The thick trees above my head block the light of the stars and the full moon. I can barely make out my feet as they stumble over brambles and gnarled tree roots. My ineptitude is the only sound in the eerily quiet woods.

 

I think I’m following something. Or someone.

 

My limbs act against my will. Even while my mind screams to go back to the bakery, to the safety of candlelight, I continue forward. The impulse is too strong to resist.

 

I can’t remember ever venturing this far.

 

As a boy I would play on the edges of the woods. But the village people told a lot of stories. Stories of wolves that claw open your chest and eat your still beating heart before your eyes, of wood nymphs that lure you deep into the shadowed trees and then slice your skin off to make leather.

 

It was enough to stop me from ever going far enough that I couldn’t look back and see smoke rising from chimneys in the village.

 

But I’m sure if I were able to turn my head, I would not see anything but shadowed tree trunks and ghostly, green leaves all pointing in the direction I was now heading.

 

I can just make out a clearing up ahead and I know straight away that it is my destination. Just as I reach it though, my body freezes, as though pressed up against a window pane.

 

A figure appears in the clearing, small and slender, long, dark hair, a woman - I think - due to the subtle hint of breasts and hips that shift in the shadows. She’s carrying something. As she moves around the clearing I try and call out to her but she cannot hear me, or perhaps my voice is broken, I’m not sure which. She lights candles in a circle but I cannot make out the features of her face, shrouded by a curtain of black hair.

 

She moves to the centre of the circle and begins to chant. I can’t make out the words - my ears feel as though they are stuffed with the wool my mother uses to make scarves in the winter. The few I do catch aren’t familiar to me, is she speaking another language?

 

Then she lifts the object in her hand, a chicken that starts squawking and flapping its wings, but she holds it firm by the feet as she lifts another hand.

 

I feel my breath catch in my throat.

 

A knife glints in the candle light. In the kind of way only possible in dreams, I see her eyes reflected back at me from the blade, they appear almost the same colour as the metal, only noticeable due to the frame of thick black lashes. But then I lose sight of her, lost in the blood now spurting from the throat of the chicken.

 

The wet sounds of its dying ring clear and true in my ears.

 

Red and thick, the blood seeps over her hands, coating the skin and dripping into the centre of the circle.

 

I look up and she’s looking at me. I can make out every feature, the line of her jaw, the shape of her eyebrow, the length of her hair as it passes her slender neck. I try and burn this image into my brain. This beautiful woman covered in the blood of a chicken.

 

But even as I look at her I stop being able to make her out, already struggling to remember what she looks like. When I wake, she’ll only be that tiny inkling of a disturbing dream that lingers in the back of your mind until next you sleep.

 

––––

 

“Have you heard?”

 

Delly Cartwright is simultaneously the sweetest and most gossipy resident of the sleepy village of Panem. Nestled in the outskirts of everything, one of its most prominent features is that it never changes.

 

So Delly makes it her business to know everything, as though by doing so she can prove that nothing really stays the same. But after listening to her gossip since she first learned to speak, I’m certain that while times may change, people do not.

 

I shake my head ‘no’, because I haven’t heard.

 

And despite how tired I feel after a restless night’s sleep, I put a smile on my face as I rearrange cinnamon rolls and ginger biscuits.

 

I haven’t seen her look this excited about news since we discovered that Maysilee Donner had run off to marry a man from a distant village. Apparently he had met her once while making a delivery and they’d been writing letters ever since.

 

“Two girls have moved into Maysilee’s old house.”

 

She’d lived in a tiny cottage on the very edge of the village, out by the forest. People think that was what drove her to do something so crazy - the lingering dark magic of the woods too close to her open bedroom window.

 

“Oh really,” I say, eyebrow raised, I definitely hadn’t been expecting that, “Who?”

 

Delly brightens as though this was exactly the question she’d hoped I’d ask.

 

“I don’t know, they just moved here, apparently they came from the village where Maysilee now lives, that’s how they got the key.”

 

We haven’t had a foreigner move to the village as long as I’ve been alive. I look up at her from the now evenly spaced rolls.

 

“Are you sure? It could just be those girls who were working on Snow’s property, I don’t think anyone’s ever seen their faces.”

 

Delly scoffs, “Snow won’t let those girls out of his sight until the day he dies.”

 

I shudder. He’s one of the few who insists on continuing to uphold the ways of the old aristocracy. After the Dark Days a government replaced the royal family, claiming that it was their hysteria that resulted in the uprising.

 

But Coriolanius Snow supposedly comes from a long line of lords and ladies and he won’t give that up. Even if it means living in a crumbling stone mansion on top of a hill with a few slave girls he found on some of his travels, hated by the whole village.

 

“And Peeta,” she drops her voice, leans over the counter and cups her hands around her mouth in a way that suggests this was what she had been waiting to tell me this whole time, “One of them is _dark_.”

 

––––

 

I don’t see the dark girl until they’ve already been living here a few weeks. But I’ve certainly heard all about her.

 

She hunts in the woods, they say, she’ll be gone before we even know her name.

I hear whispers of the girls all around town. On my bread deliveries everyone asks if I’ve had any new customers lately, eyebrow raised, lip curled. It’s almost amusing watching the disappointment flood their faces as I tell them no, just the same as always.

 

Though I can’t help but wonder.

 

It’s all my mother can talk about at the dinner table, as we hunch over stale bread and dense stews filled with salted meat from the storeroom. We keep barrels of cuts of ham and chicken and the occasional trade my brothers make with the butcher.

 

I’m always grateful we only kill the animals once or twice a year, it’s my least favourite task. Unlike my mother, who sits all day with a smirk on her face and a gleam in her eye as she guts the pigs, pulling out their intestines and draining them to make blood sausages.

 

I couldn’t imagine doing that every day, hunting and killing and skinning.

 

“They’re saying she’s mixed,” she says, voice hushed as though we could be heard through brick walls.

 

“They’re sisters,” adds my middle brother, Rye.

 

“I thought only one of them was dark,” my father refutes as he sips at his ale.

 

My mother raises an eyebrow, “The mother must have been a slut.”

I almost choke on the bite of food I was having and she shoots me a harsh look, “Chew your food, Peeta, I’m not here to cut it for you.”

 

Despite being almost twenty-one, my cheeks flood with shame. Mother certainly has a way about her that makes sure I’ll always be aware of exactly how much of a disappointment I am.

 

I’m sure she only keeps me around because I’m the best of us in the bakery. Despite this, it’ll still be my eldest brother who takes over.

 

It’s the next morning, when I’m doing my usual bread delivery, that I see her for the first time. She’s got a bag slung over her shoulder and making her way from house to house just like I am.

 

If I’m honest, the most shocking thing about her is not the rich olive tone of her skin, less dark than gossip would have me believe, but the fact that she’s wearing pants. In all my life I can’t ever remember seeing a woman wearing pants.

 

I’m intrigued by the determined set of her features, the way her eyebrows crowd together in a scowl as she makes her way between houses.

 

She’s also wearing a leather jacket that looks far too big to have been made for her. The shoulders hang low, almost reaching her elbow. There’s one leather shop in the centre of village, across from the bakery, and the production is time intensive and the products generally expensive. A jacket like that would have cost me a year’s savings.

I take a deep breath and make my way over to her. She obviously hears me and turns just as she’s about to knock on a door.

 

“Hi,” I say, smiling in as welcoming a manner as I can manage, “I’m Peeta Mellark, I work over in the bakery.”

 

Her lip quirks, “Surprising, since it’s called Mellark’s Bakery.”

 

A dull flush fills my cheeks, “Um,” I stutter, I certainly hadn’t expected that.

 

“So…” I trail off, looking at her expectantly, hoping she’ll give me her name, but she just raises an eyebrow like I’m wasting her time so I continue, “What are you trading?”

 

“Mostly squirrel, a few cuts of rabbit meat too,” she says matter-of-factly, looking over her shoulder at the door behind her. But I don’t want to leave until I get her name.

 

“Aren’t you scared of hunting in the woods?” I’ve asked the question before I think about how cowardly it makes me seem. I expect her to laugh at me, to call me out on being the big baby that I am.

 

Instead her brow furrows ever deeper into the scowl that seems permanently set on her features.

 

“You think I can’t handle the woods?”

 

It’s already apparent that my permanent state around this woman will be blushing cheeks and an inability to form rational sentences. She has my usual easy charm unravelling at the seams.

 

“No - no - it’s just,” I figure it’s best to simply admit the truth, so I do, ducking my head to look at the worn leather of my shoes, a gift for my eighteenth birthday, shoes for a man my father had said, “I would be scared.”

 

I look up after a moment’s silence, sure that I’ll find the look of someone who never wants to speak to me again.

 

Instead there’s a small smile twisting the corners of her lips and edging into her cheeks.

 

“Okay, Peeta,” she says, and I’m enamoured by the melodic lilt her voice gives to my name, “I’ll come by the bakery some time for a trade.”

 

She turns, as though to indicate this conversation is over, but I’m not ready yet.

 

“Wait,” I call and she looks over her shoulder at me, thick, black lashes framing silver eyes and I’m struck by the familiarity of the sight.

 

“Yes?” She questions as I fail to go on.

 

 

“Um, I’ll need to know your name,” I reach up, tugging at the waves of my hair and hoping I’ll manage to pull myself inside out so I never have to relive this conversation, “For trades and stuff. To go in the book.”

 

“Katniss,” is all she says before turning back to the door and raising her fist, firmly alerting me to the fact that this conversation is over.

 

––––

 

I have the dream again and it’s both more and less in focus than the first time. I see the chicken so clearly, its body convulsing after its throat has been slit, wings fluttering as it seeks one final attempt at flight. I see the blood. I see the flicker of candles. I feel the trees pressing against my back and urging me forward but I’m stuck at the edge of the clearing no matter how hard I try. But her. She’s less. I can’t make out anything about her. Only memory tells me she’s there, it’s like a shadow instead of something real. It’s not real.

 

––––

 

I wake up coated in sweat and look to my open bedroom window. I think of Maysilee and how they say the magic of the forest drove her mad.

 

I move to shut it, my sleep shirt and pants clinging to my skin as the last dregs of dreaming work their way out through my pores. But as I reach the window, I see Katniss winding her way back out of the woods, a bag slung over her shoulder, dark liquid dripping from the base - fresh kills.

 

Her hands are red too. Just peeking out from the sleeves of her jacket.

I decide not to close the window.

 

––––

 

Katniss’ sister is named Primrose. My mother adores her.

 

She comes into the bakery that morning with a few coins asking for whatever they’d pay for. I watch from the back room as my mother croons over the young girl, reaching out a hand to stroke the blonde braids plaited neatly on each side of her head, as she smiles down at the bright blue eyes.

 

At first I don’t understand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so nice. As she wraps up the cookies and adds a little extra treat for the girl I try to file through my memories and figure out how to place this.

 

But it’s later, when she comes into the kitchen and shoots me a look filled with so much hatred that I get it.

 

She wished I was a girl. Like me, soft and sweet and too cowardly to walk far into the woods. But not me.

 

––––

 

“Your sister’s lovely,” I say as Katniss hands over two squirrels for a loaf of bread.

 

She ducks her head but I just catch the way her teeth bite down on her bottom lip, “Yeah, she loved those cookies.”

 

“Oh, hold on a second.”

 

I turn back into the kitchen and look at the tray of freshly baked cookies, finding one that’s slightly wonky and picking it up with a paper bag. I tuck it inside before quickly scurrying back to Katniss and handing it to her with a smile.

 

She frowns down at it, peering inside quickly before rummaging through her meat bag and coming up with a packaged labelled ‘rabbit’.

 

“What? No, Katniss, you don’t need to trade for this.”

 

Her frown deepens, “I don’t need charity.”

 

I pull the cookie out from the bag, “Look we couldn’t sell this anyway, and it’s for Prim. My mother loves her so she won’t mind anyway.”

 

She bites down hard on her lip and I find my gaze fixed to the spot.

 

Eventually she agrees to take the cookie but only if I agree to a squirrel and a cut of rabbit next time for the loaf.

 

Despite this not being my goal, I agree. I’ve never had rabbit before and I’ve heard that it’s delicious.

 

She turns and leaves with a firm nod of her head, not staying for any unnecessary conversation.

 

Katniss only started making trades in the village centre a week or two ago. Usually my father deals with her and they’d come up with the squirrels/bread deal. But I was the only one working this morning, so I finally got the opportunity to speak with her again.

 

At first people were reluctant to trade with her, but I think the appeal of fresh, consistent meat eventually won out and everyone seems a bit happier for it.

 

Even my mother couldn’t help but smile the first time we ate it.

 

––––

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

She’s just stuck her head out her door, preventing me from seeing inside.

 

“Oh, um,” I scratch the back of my head. I was hoping the cart of bread behind me would be clear enough.

 

I hear a noise behind and strain my head to look, but Katniss only pulls the door closer still.

 

“You didn’t come by the bakery this morning and I, my, um, dad was wondering if you still wanted bread this week.”

 

She shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, “I didn’t get the chance to go hunting this morning.”

 

Something sounding like a groan manages it’s way through the crack of the door and I try again to see past, but Katniss just mumbles a sorry and slams it in my face.

 

I leave a loaf on her doorstep with a note that she can give us something extra next week.

 

––––

 

“Here,” she says, thrusting a very large package in my direction.

 

My arms are full of a tray of cinnamon rolls and I didn’t even hear her knock, so the gesture has my feet slipping out from under me. I land on the ground in a thud, but somewhere in the last few moments Katniss managed to balance the tray of cinnamon rolls and instead of all over the floor like I had expected, they lie safely in her arms.

 

“You’re quick,” is all I can manage as I grip at the edge of the benchtop to pull myself up.

 

She mumbles an apology, ducking her head from my gaze as I grab the tray and set it down elsewhere.

 

“Quiet too,” I say, glancing briefly at the package, “What’s that?”

 

“Turkey,” she glares at it in a way that suggests she’s quite glad the bird is dead, “For the bread.”

 

I pick it up and pull aside some of the brown paper she’d used to wrap it, peeking at the pink flesh of it, freshly plucked and all.

 

“I’ve never cooked a turkey,” I say as I wrap it up again and put it in the cold store, “Not sure if I know how.”

 

Looking over at Katniss I see her lips twisting in a grimace, shoulders hunching over as she crosses her arms.

 

“My um, dad he –” she starts to say something but then Rye is trudging through the back door, almost knocking her over as he enters.

 

He barely acknowledges her presence, just turns to me with a raised eyebrow that I attempt to shrug off.

 

“Katniss agreed to trade a turkey.”

 

Rye barks a laugh, “A turkey? Have fun trying to cook that little brother.”

 

She frowns at his back as he leaves the room but doesn’t say anything. I can still hear Rye laughing as he marches up the stairs to our small apartment above the bakery.

 

“Do you have a pencil and paper?” I try to wipe the smile from my face. I really don’t need her to see how excited I am at a simple opportunity for some extra conversation. I nod and scramble to the front of the store to get her the items.

 

When I bring them back, Katniss hunches over the preparation table, scribbling away without a second glance at me.

 

Only once she’s done does she look up, giving me a quick nod before grabbing her hunting bag and heading out the door.

 

A part of me wants to chase after her, see if she feels like keeping me company while I prepare the rest of the day’s bread, a little disappointed that our extended conversation included approximately zero extra words. But I know that she has many other trades to make, others who now rely on her to get any meat at all.

 

The butcher would hate her if only he didn’t trade meat himself. She gets a fine cut of lamb for a good few squirrels that he can sell cheaply. Not many in the village can normally afford to go to the butcher, so Katniss’ trades even give him a bit of extra income.

 

That doesn’t stop him from saying nasty things about the Dark Girl to every customer who’ll listen. It makes my skin crawl.

 

So I resist the urge to follow her and pick up the piece of paper she’d scribbled all over. At the very top is written:

 

_The Perfect Turkey_

 

––––

 

“Three of the Carroway’s chickens went missing last night,” Delly says in between bites of a danish.

 

I tilt my head to encourage her to go on as I rearrange the front window display. It’s coming up to the harvest festival, so I make an effort to keep it festive and cheerful. It’s always been my favourite time of year.

 

“Jeremiah Carroway is telling everybody to watch out, he thinks the foxes are back.”

 

Every few years we have a fox problem. Something scares them away from the bounty of the forest so they come looking around our backyards for a meal.

 

“His wife, Lydia, was saying it’s the Dark Girl’s fault.”

 

“Katniss,” I say.

 

Delly startles, eyes wide. I almost never contribute to these conversations, just listen as she gossips.

 

“Her name is Katniss,” I turn back to the display, arranging some spun sugar farm animals in front of a gingerbread barn, “Not ‘the dark girl’.”

 

“Oh,” she says, “Um, of course.”

 

I don’t have to look back to know that Delly’s pale cheeks have turned crimson at the correction.

 

“Well um, Lydia thinks that because um, K-Katniss is hunting so much, the foxes aren’t getting enough food, so are turning on the chickens.”

 

Pulling away from the creation I turn to Delly, “And what do you think?”

 

She turns even brighter pink and I almost feel bad, but the amount of talk I’ve heard from people who haven’t even tried to get to know Katniss is starting to infuriate me.

 

“Well um,” she falters a little, rising up and down on her tiptoes as she wrings her fingers together, “There’s probably quite enough food in the forest, y’know, for everyone.”

 

“Me too.”

 

––––

 

The following weekend I’m working in the front of shop, so I don’t get to see Katniss when she comes and makes her trades.

 

I hear my father’s hearty belly laugh though and can’t help but smile at the thought of them getting along. My father’s never been one for petty gossip and prejudices. My mother on the other hand, couldn’t be more opposite.

 

As soon as the back door closes I can hear her exasperated sigh and it doesn’t take much to imagine her eyes rolling and the clench of fists at her sides.

 

“I don’t think we should trade with  _her_  anymore.”

 

The heavy footsteps of my father cross the room.

 

“Oh sweetpea, it does no harm.”

 

She sighs and I can imagine his hands at her shoulders, trying and trying to rub out the knots under her skin and always failing.

 

“And it does us some good to have a bit of fresh meat on the table. Why, Peeta’s never looked healthier.”

 

I duck my head in a blush, they obviously don’t realise I can hear. Trying to catch my reflection in the small window I wonder if what he’s saying is true.

 

“Peeta eats too much,” my mother cuts in, “He’ll send this family broke if he keeps it up. Probably gets it from that chubby friend of his.”

 

A sharp intake of breath is all I allow myself as I continue setting up. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, but there’s no need to bring down someone as sweet as Delly.

 

“Rosie, that’s a bit unfair.”

 

I imagine his eyebrows furrowed in shock, as though this is the first time he’s heard this side of the woman he married, as though this is so very unlike her.

 

––––

 

I make my way to Katniss’ later that afternoon once I’m finished work. We always close a little earlier on Sundays.

 

The route is filled with remnants from the Dark Days: crumbled concrete buildings that have been ravaged for anything remotely useful, tar-soaked ‘X’s painted on their sides or on trees or anything deemed to be cursed.

 

The official decree issued by the government following the final witch burning stated that any curses would only last two generations. But seventy-four years later, with only those born at the ends of the war still alive, only the bravest go anywhere near the sites of the Damned. There’s certainly enough horror stories about what happens to those that do to keep the fear alive.

 

I try to keep my eyes on the path ahead, the last thing I need is to be thinking about witches and folklore as I show up at Katniss’ house.

 

When I reach it, I knock and hope she’ll actually have a conversation with me this time.

 

I wait for a bit but don’t hear any movement. Of course she probably has better things to do than sit around at home all day. I’m just heading back up the path when I hear the wooden creak of an opening door and turn back to find her startled expression standing on the threshold.

 

“Oh, hi, Katniss!” I say, taking a few large steps back towards her. I can already feel my cheeks splitting with a smile that I know won’t disappear almost as long as I’m in her presence.

 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, crossing her arms over her body, “I already traded with you today.”

 

She peers behind me but finds no cart full of bread.

 

“No, I know,” I raise a hand to tug at the curls at the back of my head, “I, uh, didn’t get to see you this morning and I wanted a chance to thank you for the turkey recipe.”

 

“Oh,” she uncrosses her arms, “Well, it was no problem.”

 

I pull out the hand I’d been hiding behind my back, a small package resting in the palm, “No, really, it was a bit of hard work but it turned out delicious, we’ve been eating the leftovers for a week. So this is a little thank you.”

 

She reaches for it and I have to bite my lip as her fingers graze my palm.

 

Looking up at me through her eyelashes, she raises an eyebrow in question, but I shrug my shoulders and duck away from the intensity of her silvery gaze.

 

I hear the crinkling of brown paper and then a little gasp.

 

“Oh, Peeta,” she says and I feel like I’ve just won some kind of prize with the way my name sounds on her tongue, all breathy and sweet, “This is too much.”

 

I glance up at the two decorated biscuits, katniss flowers iced into their surface. It had taken a bit of digging but I’d managed to find a drawing in an old book of my father’s.

 

“I made them for you, Katniss.”

 

Her teeth catch her bottom lip and I have to force myself to look up to her eyes.

 

“How about you come in for a cup of tea and we share them?”

 

It’s a miracle I don’t melt in a puddle on her doorstep there and then, but I still manage a hopeless, “Yeah, sure, sounds good, um, great!”

 

I swipe the bottoms of my shoes on the grass outside her front door, careful to rid them of the dirt and mud that must have accumulated on my walk over.

 

“Is, um, your sister home?” I ask as I take in the small cottage. It had only ever been Maysilee living here, so it was certainly built for one. I eye the copper tub by the fireplace and try not to think of Katniss’ skin, bare and sudsy, her wet hair clinging to the sides of her face, humming to herself as she scrubs off the grime.

 

She mustn’t hear me, because she grabs the kettle fills it up from the water pump in the garden. Curiousity niggles at me and I walk into the kitchen and twist the tap but only brown, murky water sputters out. Not every house in the district was lucky enough to keep it’s running water and Snow - the only person capable in this village, since it was never a government priority -  never bothered spending any of his money to fix the damaged pipes.

 

“There’s a lake in the woods,” Katniss’ voice startles me and I start to apologise for prying but she just shakes her head, “Maysilee must have figured it out because the pump was already here, but the lake runs quite far underground and she managed tap into it.”

 

She laughs a little as she lights the fire and sets the kettle above it, “Thank the High Sister, or else I’d have to be lugging back water for a few miles every day.”

 

I’m sure my eyes are comically wide, I don’t know anyone who so flippantly utters the words of the Covens. I’ve only heard my mother use them in the heights of her anger, the ultimate insult, the words leaving her mouth filled with hatred and malevolence.

 

But Katniss just keeps smiling to herself, arranging the flames beneath the kettle before glancing at me with a slyly raised eyebrow. I have to blush and duck away - again - of course she’s heard the rumours around town and I’ve basically just revealed that a part of me is suspicious too.

 

She doesn’t say a thing about it though, just makes her way to the kitchen to pull out two chipped mugs and a handful of chopped pine needles. Then we sit at the small wooden table in the centre of the room.

 

“My sister’s in town by the way,” Katniss says as she opens the package of decorated biscuits, carefully placing one in front of each of us, “Which is a blessing because it would break my heart to have to share this biscuit with her.”

 

Her eyes stay focused on the table, where an idle finger traces the shapes in the wood grain, but I can see a hint of a blush on her olive cheeks, barely discernable if not for the way her lips twist as they try to avoid a smile and how her cheeks seem to puff out with the darkening colour.

 

“I um, get biscuits all the time,” I start, pushing it back towards her in earnest, “She can have this one. Or you can have both. I won’t tell I promise.”

 

Katniss laughs again and I think the sound might just be the most magical thing in this village. Then she places her hands over mine. They’re small and delicate looking, with long, dark fingers that curl around the edges of my hands, but I can feel the rough calluses on their undersides, stories of the hard work I have no doubt she’s endured.

 

We both look down at where our hands touch. I like the way it looks, the way it feels. I never want her to let go.

 

But she does, of course, squeezing briefly before she releases me and says, “It’s yours, Peeta.”

 

––––

 

Later, when I bid her farewell and wander the path home, I realise that I left a part of me in that cottage, some secret corner of my smile or the breath in my lungs, and I’m never going them get it back.

 

––––

 

“Maybe we should keep the chickens inside at night?”

 

Mother scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, Rafferty. Just because the Carroways are incapable of building a proper coop doesn’t mean there’s suddenly a skulk of foxes ready and rampant to take every chook in the village.”

 

They lost another two chickens. It’s been almost a month since the last time but it’s recent enough that the whole village is a buzz.

 

Everyone coming into the bakery today has regaled me with stories of apparent fox sightings. Delly could hardly breath as she filled me in. The Rolfe’s swore they heard one howling in their backyard. The Wrights insist they’ve got chicken blood trailing past their back gate. And old Greasy Sae has told everyone who’ll listen that their chooks are next.

 

For a couple of birds, it seems everyone’s gone mad.

 

––––

 

By the week before the Harvest Festival, with the last few dredges of autumn clinging to the air, I really only see Katniss on Sundays. In the morning she brings her trades to the bakery and I’ll catch glimpses of her braid as I knead bread or flit back and forth from the store front. My father sends me knowing looks and I spend the rest of the shift trying to hide the unmoveable flush on my cheeks.

 

After we close and I manage to clean and sweep to mother’s content, dad’ll send me off on some errand with a heavy hand on my shoulder and a wink.

 

Mother is too busy teaching Rafferty how to handle the books to notice that I’m gone for more than a few hours every Sunday afternoon - back just in time for dinner. I couldn’t be more grateful as I sip cups of tea in Katniss’ tiny cottage that he was always better with numbers than I was.

 

She always has something different to offer: stinging nettle, mint moss, rhododendron, rose hip, and anything she manages to forage in the woods.

 

They seem to provide an endless source of sustenance and sometimes, in the dark of my bedroom, I wonder what it would it be like to be brave enough to face them.

 

At home we only have my mother’s precious black tea. I’ve only had it once or twice in my life. She trades for it with Snow up in his relic of a mansion. He gets the finest bread for it and she won’t hardly share a sip with us. She says she gets headaches without it and while I’m not sure if I believe her, I have no desire to test the theory and see her in an even worse mood than normal.

 

Despite autumn’s desperation to stay, winter seems to already have arrived in the form of a stuffy nose and a sore throat, and Katniss manages to open the door just as I’m sneezing a few times in a row into the crook of my elbow.

 

She frowns but doesn’t say anything as she disappears back into the cottage, leaving me to wipe off my shoes and hang up my rugged, woolen coat.

 

When I enter the kitchen she’s filing through her cupboards, raised up on tip toes as she shuffles glass jars. I cross my arms and lean against the wall, watching in amusement at the way her tongue peaks out the corner of her lips, her little, scrunched nose as she rejects jar after jar.

 

Eventually she grabs something with a little ‘A-ha!’ and drops back to the ground, turning to me with a smile as she waves the jar at my sniffling face. Its contents mean nothing to me so I simply shrug as she starts brewing the kettle, humming a sweet tune that has my heart stuttering away in my chest.

 

“So –” the beginning of my sentence is interrupted by a violent sneeze and I smile sheepishly before continuing, “Are you going to the Harvest Festival next weekend?”

 

Katniss rolls her eyes as she joins me at the table. I pull a brown paper package out of my pocket and smile at the way her lips purse at the sight of it.

 

She starts unfolding it as she answers, “It’s all Prim can talk about, we had one back in our old village but never really attended so she’s insisting we go this year.”

 

She bites her lip but smiles at me at the sight of two cheese-filled buns - I very quickly learnt that these were her favourite of everything we had at the store, and while they’re harder to obtain, I’m almost certain that at this point there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to bring that smile to her face.

 

The whistle of the boiled kettle distracts her from saying anything more.

 

“It’s thyme,” she says, spooning a few teaspoons into the teapot, “It’ll need to steep for a while, so we can eat these while we wait.”

 

An unofficial condition of our afternoons together is that if I am to bring a treat, there must be enough for both of us. On the one occasion where I was only able to nab one cinnamon cookie out from under mother’s watchful eyes, she refused to eat it until we split it right down the middle.

 

I pick apart the cheese bun, relishing the sight of Katniss’ cheeks bulging with the effort to savour each and every bite.

 

“So is thyme tea good for a cold?”

 

She nods her head, mouth too full to properly answer. I smile at her, wiping my running nose with the edge of my sleeve.

 

“Well, thank you,” I say, pushing the last few bites of my cheese bun in her direction, feigning fullness.

 

She rolls her eyes at me but it’s much easier to convince her to take it since she loves them so much.

 

“How’s Prim enjoying her goat?” I ask at the sound of its bleating, “I have to say these buns taste even better since she started making cheese. Maybe you should set up a stall at the festival?”

 

“Mmph, she loves the thing, calls it Lady,” Katniss says in between licks of her fingers, “It’s good. It gives her um, something to focus on. Other than school, at least.”

 

‘School’ is a very loose term for the classroom in the back of the Cartwright’s shoe store. Delly’s mother runs it five days a week teaching from the couple of government mandated textbooks that supposedly cover everything any five to eighteen year old should know.

 

I nod, remembering being young and restless in this tiny corner of the world.

 

“It’ll be ready now, just breathe in the steam for a while,” she says, reaching for the teapot and pouring the steaming water into my mug.

 

I do as instructed and can already feel my insides clearing.

 

“How did you learn all of this?” I can’t help the note of awe that fills my voice. We have an apothecary in town but they mostly sell expensive medicines from the government, and I’m sure it’s another business that Katniss could outsell if she was so inclined.

 

She shrugs but I notice her silver eyes flicker towards a thick, leather-bound volume on the shelf.

 

“My mother was the daughter of our local apothecary, and my father would scavenge in the woods, collecting and recording the uses of all sorts of plants,” she takes a sip of the tea as well, cringing a little at the bitterness of it, “He was much better at all this… stuff… than I am.”

 

_Was_. It doesn’t escape my notice. But I can see the way her body shifts, arms crossing over her chest, eyes fixing on a point somewhere between this world and a past one. As curious as I am, it is not a question for this day.

 

Luckily, the opening door and a blur of blonde hair and pale skin is whirring across the room fast enough to rip off the sudden weight of our conversation.

 

“Prim, you’re home?” Katniss startles, quickly grabbing at the brown paper in front of her and shoving it into the pocket of her pants.

 

I’ve never properly spoken to Prim, only seen her the few times a week she comes into the bakery after school to woo my mother.

 

The toothy smile she shoots Katniss’ way falls as she notices my presence. Her eyes are blue, but a crisper colour than my own, holding some of that grey edge that fills Katniss’.

 

Those eyes appraise me for a moment, apparently finding what they’re looking for as she tilts forward in a curtsy.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peeta.”

 

I barely get the chance to respond before she’s run into the bedroom, the door shut firmly behind her.

 

Katniss sighs deeply before shooting me an apologetic look.

 

“It’s getting dark,” I say, “I’d better be heading home.”

 

She nods and walks me to the door, pouring the rest of the tea in a mug and handing it to me after I’ve tugged on my boots and coat.

 

“Drink this on the way home, you can give the mug back at the Harvest Festival.”

 

I thank her and turn to leave but she tugs on my coat sleeve, voice dropping to a whisper, “And Peeta? Sorry about Prim. She’s not used to visitors in the house.”

 

Under the darkening sky, Katniss’ eyes practically glimmer like stars, earnest and proud as they look up at me. I reach a hand forward to push a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze the line of her cheekbone and we both suck in a breath at the contact.

 

“It’s fine, Katniss, don’t worry about me.”

 

And then I press a kiss to her cheek, the way I see close friends or lovers farewell.

 

The memory of it lingers on my lips long into the night.

 

 ––––

 

The Harvest Festival arrives in a blur of frantic energy. We spend the whole week leading up to it setting up and preparing. Mother is determined, as always, to have the best stall.

 

We all get to take shifts running it so each of us has a turn to explore the rest, and with five people that works out pretty well. I try to hide my disappointment at being slotted in during the parade the young school kids put on. Mrs. Cartwright might be as gossipy as her daughter, but she certainly knows how to put on a show. I pretend that I don’t notice mother’s smirk as she lets me know I’ll miss it.

 

The village is transformed. Every house covered in garlands, competing with its neighbour for the best decorations. Stalks of wheat hang from front doors. Windows are thrown open.

 

The village square and all the surrounding businesses are the most heavily decorated. All the stalls are set up in front of the stores so we can easily go inside and get anything if needed.

 

Ours is a majestic display of every kind of bread or biscuit or treat you could think of. It’s the one time of year mother lets us splurge on ingredients and lets our creative sides run rampant. I think my father and I have almost as much fun coming up with ideas as seeing the looks on the faces of village people as they pass by.

 

It’s a magical occasion.

 

Katniss and Prim managed to get a small store in the section off the side of the square. She smiles at me as I buy some cheese and some hearty deer stew. It’s possibly one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten: perfectly spiced, the tender meat amongst the stewed vegetables. I hear more than one person announcing they’re going back for seconds throughout the day.

 

But it isn’t until the stalls are closing, leaving room for people to congregate around the square drinking cups of mulled wine and laughing at the antics of street performers that I finally get to spend time with her.

 

After slipping away from Delly, I find her leaning against the side wall of the bakery, shrouded in shadow as she watches the festivities dwindle.

 

“Hey,” I say, nudging her side with an elbow.

 

She nudges back by way of response, looking up at me with a wry smile that has me needing to catch my lip between my teeth so I don’t do anything stupid.

 

The clear bell of laughter breaks the moment and we both look forward to see Prim being spun around by Delly’s younger brother, Matthias. A fiddler plays a frenetic tune that has bodies twirling across the square in hurried, practiced steps.

 

We watch from our dark corner. A little private world where just the two of us exist.

 

I feel Katniss’ fingers flex and before I can think too much of it I grasp them in my own. From the corner of my eye I see her head duck, a smile threatening at her lips. She weaves her fingers between mine, interlocking our digits. I want to look down at them, to see the contrast of our skin, her lithe fingers entangled in the pale trunks of my own.

 

Instead I allow myself to memorise the feel of her. I remember almost nothing from the rest of that night except the curve of her hand beside mine, the kiss of our palms, the ragged edges of her nails as they scrape just so against my knuckles.

 

And then more:

 

The whisper of her hair as it tickles against my neck, her shoulder digging into my arm as she learns further and further into me, and finally, oh finally, the gentle press of her lips, dry and chapped from the rising winter winds, on that secret corner of my smile that is resolutely hers.

 

––––

 

All the shops are closed the day after the the Harvest Festival, so it gives us a chance to properly clean out the bakery. We switch off the ovens and scrape out the blackened charcoal, ourselves emerging from it comically dark against the whites of our teeth and eyes.

 

Rye and I used to both fit inside the oven and thoroughly clean it top to toe, and then we’d throw the sooty remains at each other in the backyard for as long as mother would tolerate. Now it takes a lot of uncomfortable bending for even one of us to get it as clean as we could as children.

 

The fact of its physical impossibility doesn’t stop mother from cuffing me upside the head when I don’t manage to get the soot from the crevices only my five year old body could reach.

 

But no matter how snarky she gets, the smile never fully drops from my face.

 

Katniss kissed me. And it ignited some warm light inside me that I think can only be snuffed out by the giver alone.

 

––––

 

“Who’d you hear that from?” I ask, an edge of desperation coating the whispered words.

 

Delly looks almost frightened as she leans further across the counter to keep her voice as low as possible. Her eyes skitter across the bakery, likely searching for signs of an eavesdropper but it’s closing and I’m the only one here. Rye and Rafferty are off wooing their girlfriends and mother and father had been invited to dinner at the Carmichael’s.

 

“Darius Reid saw you two kissing behind the Hob last Saturday,” she can hardly look at me as she says the words, eyes fixed on the sudsy water as I wipe down surfaces. Her voice catches at the end and I quickly realise that this is about more than just the fact I’ve been caught kissing Katniss.

 

“Delly,” I say, voice dropping but she just shakes her head a shoots me a watery smile.

 

“It’s fine, I just always…” she trails off, biting her lip, “I guess I thought there’d been a particular reason you never went to the slag heap with your brothers.”

 

I reach forward and place a hand on her wrist. She watches for a moment, breath catching in her throat before she pulls away with a final squeeze of my hand. For an awful moment I compare her touch to Katniss’ and know that no other will ever make me feel the way my girl can.

 

We look at each other for a moment before she shakes her head with a sigh.

 

“Peeta, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Delly keeps her voice quiet but I can already feel my defences raising, “But you have to be careful.”

 

“Why?” It comes out sharper than intended.

 

“If your mother finds out…”

 

We both look away. Delly is the only person in this village who knows how bad my mother can really get. When I was twelve she broke my arm after I dropped a tray of cookies. Delly had been standing in the mud room waiting for me to finish my morning chores so we could go play games before classes started. I think she screamed louder than I did.

 

I made her promise not to tell anybody. It’s the only secret she’s ever kept.

 

She sighs, bites her lip. There’s clearly more she wants to say.

 

“Peeta, your mother isn’t the only person you should be careful of.”

 

My chest feels tight. I have to stop my fists from clenching at my sides. I know what she’s going to say and as much as I want to stop it, a worse part of me wants to hear what she’s heard.

 

“I’ve heard things,” she steps around the counter so she can say the words directly into my ear, “Things that scare me.”

 

I grip the counter in front of me so hard that my knuckles turn white. I think of Katniss kissing me. Of the innocent act of her lips pressed against mine, her hands gripping my shirt as I cup her cheeks to hold her face close to mine. The memories linger even as Delly’s words cloud my mind.

 

“They say she killed a girl.”

 

––––

 

The image burns so sharply that I dream about it. Madge Undersee they say her name was, locked in her bedroom as her house caught fire. She never had a chance. Her screams are lost in the screech of the house collapsing under the weight of the flames. She cries out for Katniss. Katniss Katniss  _Katniss! Help!_ In the distance I see a figure, dark and lithe, running towards the burning building but it’s too late and the figure never seems to get any closer, no matter how hard they run. I try and claw through it, to reach the girl, but it’s all too heavy, too hot. My skin burns, blisters forming and bursting as I scramble through the wreckage. I pull away to look at my hands. The tips of my fingers start dripping, long strands of melted skin stretching off my skeleton, next my palms, trails of blood pooling in the now rubbery puddles of my hands. I scream and scream until I awake to the pitch black of my room.

 

––––

 

The next time I see Katniss is on our usual Sunday afternoons. Her sister normally spends this time with Greasy Sae learning how to knit. It’s apparently one of the few skills Katniss lacks. That and a surprising aversion to wounds, given how readily she’ll gut a squirrel. 

 

But today Prim is home when I arrive. She opens the door with a weary look on her face and pins me with that same suspicious look as the last time I was here.

 

“Prim?” Katniss’ voice sounds from inside, “Is that Peeta? Let him in it’s freezing outside!”

 

Her eyebrows furrow together but she opens the door wider to let me in.

 

Before I do though I extend a hand, “I don’t think we’ve properly met, I’m Peeta.”

 

She rolls her eyes, “I know.”

 

“Well,” I say, pulling my hand back to tug the knitted burgundy beanie off my head, “Then you’ll know I’m the bakers son and have unlimited access to freshly baked goods. There’s a bag of cheese buns here and I’m almost certain one of them is meant for you.”

 

I hand her the bag and she opens it, shoving her nose in to pick up the aroma of freshly baked bread and warm cheese. She pulls away, a blush tingeing her pale cheeks and then shoots me a shy smile.

 

“I’ll go put these on a plate.”

 

“Thank you, Primrose,” I say, settling down to awkward task of removing my winter boots.

 

“Call me Prim!” She shouts from the kitchen.

 

When I enter the main room Katniss throws her arms around me in a hug.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers into my chest before pulling away and caressing my jaw with her thumb. Her face is soft, lacking the usual frown lines.

 

I lean down and kiss her. This is what matters: the scattered thump of my heart at even the lightest touch from her, the warm glow that reaches to the tips of cold, winter-ridden fingers.

 

“Ew,” Prim squeals as she reenters with plate of cheese buns.

 

I pull away and laugh but entangle my fingers with Katniss’, not quite ready to lose contact.

 

I hadn’t known Prim was going to be here today so it’s only chance that I snagged three to bring with me. I had imagined splitting one with Katniss, our fingers tearing at the bread, catching and losing each other as they slicked with grease. But the way Katniss smiles as Prim moans through bitefuls of still-warm cheese is definitely worth losing that.

 

“I’ve never had the cheese buns,” Prim says as she licks remnants off her fingertips, “Mrs. Mellark always gives me cookies.”

 

I don’t have enough time to stop the downturn of my lips at her words. The mask is back on my face before Prim notices anything but Katniss shoots me a questioning frown. I only bite my lip and look down at my plate in response, studying the fine cracks in the clay.

 

“Do you guys want to play a game?” Prim asks. I look up and see a grin splitting the young girls cheeks. Katniss sighs dramatically but it’s obvious she’ll do anything to please her sister.

 

We wind up playing some dice game Prim learnt in class. She mostly seems to make up the rules as we go, almost always to her advantage, but the more she wins the more she seems to warm up to me. So Katniss and I simply send each other sly smiles every time Prim proclaims something else, nudging each other’s sides and playing another, slightly less innocent game with our fingers.

 

I cover a moan with a cough as she traces her index finger up my thigh, raising an eyebrow as she gets closer and closer to uncharted territory. Prim is oblivious. But my mind is anywhere but on the dice.

 

Up until now my relationship with Katniss has been largely limited to sweet kisses in the shadows behind buildings and wide trees.

 

That’s not to say I haven’t thought about the brief slivers of skin I’ve seen when her top rides up at the back, or the breathless rise and fall of her collarbone after we pull apart. I lie in bed at night and imagine those brief glimpses expanding into vast stretches, the curve of a breast, the length of her toned legs. And when these images take hold of my mind, I groan at the feel of my cock hardening and grunt into the pillow as I fist myself, hoping desperately my brothers, only metres away, don’t wake up.

 

But this is the first time I realise those fantasies could one day be memories.

 

I shift uncomfortably in my spot on the floor, hoping that neither Prim nor Katniss can tell in what direction my thoughts have headed, and then I dedicate the rest of the afternoon to artfully losing to Primrose Everdeen.

 

By the time I realise I need to leave, the sun has sunk low on the horizon, sending that familiar orange glow blazing across the sky and illuminating the clouds in its dramatic farewell.

 

Prim grips me tight around the hips in a hug that I return. She pulls back and looks up at me with a toothy grin.

 

“I like you,” she says, and I swear Katniss visibly sighs in relief at those words.

 

“I like you, too,” I flick her nose and smile down at her, “Now do you mind if I say goodbye to your sister in private?”

 

She scrunches up her face in disgust but I can tell she doesn’t really mean it, waving as she skips off to her room and shuts the door behind her.

 

As soon we’re alone I pull Katniss into me, winding my arms low on her hips and dropping my head so I can kiss her hard. Her tongue sweeps across my lower lip and I accept it greedily, biting down lightly before meeting it with my own.

 

She traces the edge of my teeth, draws me into her mouth, pulls away and teases me with short pecks before tugging at my bottom lip and inviting me back in. Her hands twist in the curls of my hair, tugging lightly and I find myself sparing enough thought to feel grateful for mother’s leniency on haircuts in the winter.

 

There’s a desperate edge to this kiss that I’ve never felt before. If Prim weren’t in the next room I’m sure we’d be clawing at each other’s skin. It’s a thought at once exhilarating and terrifying.

 

Before Katniss, the furthest I’d ever gotten with a girl was Maisie Rubinstein. Rye was celebrating his eighteenth birthday in the meadow with a few bottles of stolen white liquor and in the haze of my first drink I didn’t resist the advances of one of his friends. Maisie pushed me against a tree, took my first kiss and showed me how to grope her breasts. Then the liquor kicked in and I turned to throw up on the grass beside us.

 

While it was expected for most of the young men in our village to settle down and marry, there was never any pressure on me. The third son, unlikely to inherit any business, an undesirable match for any daughter in town. My only hope is really to seem useful enough for Rafferty to want to keep me around in the bakery. So in that sense, pursuing women was never my top priority.

 

Katniss’ tugs on my earlobe with her teeth and I choke on a gasp, forcing my mind into the present moment.

 

“What’re you thinking, Peeta?” She whispers into the shell of my ear and it’s like I can feel her voice as it travels through me, more intoxicating than any white liquor. 

 

“That I don’t know to do this,” I answer into the air, my eyes looking down to the tail of her braid as it falls down her back, my fingers gripping at her hips.

 

“Let me show you.”

 

––––

 

She doesn’t show me that day, but it’s all I can think about during the week. I burn a loaf of bread in my distraction and cop a blow about the ears as compensation.

 

As my thoughts turn more and more to Katniss, practically consumed by the desire I saw in her eyes as I left the cottage that day, my mother’s hatred for me seems too to grow.

 

I let the tiny, cold shower numb my bruised skin even as my mind clouds with images of Katniss. My cock swells in my fist as I picture her breasts, dusky and firm as I’ve felt them pressed against my chest. I imagine grasping her hips, her thighs as I lean down to suck at her nipples, to taste the salt of her skin and memorise the rise and fall of her chest beneath my wandering lips. I tug furiously at my erection, desperate to lose myself in the delight of her image.

 

After, I watch the remnants of my release swirl in the water as it drains away. My mother bangs her fist on the door and shouts at me to stop wasting water. I prepare for another long day in the bakery. I half-heartedly listen to Delly’s most recent update. I eat and sleep.

 

But always, Katniss lingers in the crevices of my being, her very soul soaking into my skin.

 

––––

 

Then comes the day she shows me.

 

I guess a part of me always imagined this day. In that version it’s sunny and we’re in the meadow on a picnic blanket, hidden by some trees. I would look up at her and see the endless sky above and feel like this was what life could be like forever.

 

Instead it’s overcast and the snow is billowing down in sheets of white that coat the village. I barely make it to Katniss’ without breaking a leg, the path is so coated in ice. I’m so nervous I want to throw up by the time I reach her doorstep and then it occurs to me that Prim might be there and I realise that despite my nerves I really hope she isn’t.

 

Katniss answers the door with a shy smile that belies the confidence of our last meeting.

 

“Hi,” I say.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Um,” I shuffle, swiping the snow off my shoes, “Is Prim here today?”

 

She doesn’t say anything so I have to look up from my soaked boots to see her shaking her head ‘no’.

 

“It’s just us, Peeta,” and there it is - the desire seeping back into her tone. I feel it draw me into the cottage. I watch her eyes flutter shut as I lean in to kiss her. Just a press of lips that lingers too long considering the open door behind us.

 

I swoop in deeper, kick the door shut, wind my hands around her waist to pull her body up against mine.

 

“Hey,” I say, pulling apart to speak against her lips.

 

“I’m really glad you’re here, Peeta.”

 

The vibrations of her voice on my lips has me moaning as I press forward again. I taste her bottom lip, smiling at her acquiescence as she lets my tongue slip forward just for a moment.

 

I pull away to tug off the layers of winter clothing, but always I feel her eyes watching me.

 

I wonder if she likes what she sees.

 

I know from the heat of her gaze that she does.

 

“I didn’t bring anything today,” I say once I get everything but my beanie off, my ears still needing a little defrosting.

 

Katniss steps towards me and tugs the wool further over my ears, fingers fiddling with the scruff of hair that flicks up over the edges. She mumbles an ‘okay’ before reaching up to peck me on my nose. It’s still numb and I go a bit cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact as she does but in just this simple motion, the nerves that had been building since I last saw her have eased.

 

Taking my hand, Katniss leads me to the bedroom. I’ve never been in here before but I don’t have much time to take in the details because as soon as the door is closed behind us, she’s pushing me up against the wall, fisting my sweater and kissing me so hard I’m sure we’ll be sealed together.

 

I’m left flailing for a moment, mind splintered into distracted fragments by the voracity of her kiss. But then she grinds against my growing erection and it’s as though I’ve been doing this forever.

 

I press forward, away from the wall and towards the bed. Katniss grunts into my mouth as the backs of her legs hit the mattress. My hands sneak up under the hem of her loose cotton top, two sizes too big and full of moth holes but perfect for allowing me to splay my hands across the small of her back.

  
Her skin radiates warmth, my palms and cold fingers defrosting at the feel of her. The skin prickles at my touch and she pulls away from my lips for just long enough to say, “You’re cold.”

 

“Mmph,” I trace the length of her neck with my nose, then my lips, “But not for long.”

 

My hands move higher, up the length of her back to cup her shoulder blades as they shift under her skin. The edges of them jutt out and I can imagine them expanding into wings, feathered and magnificent as she takes command of the uncharted skies.

 

She pulls at the hem of my sweater, up and up until I have to release her so she can get the garment over my head, taking the beanie with it.

 

“I like your hair like this,” she says, running her fingers through hair now long enough to curl.

 

“I like that you like it,” I laugh, leaning down to capture her lips once more in a kiss.

 

Gripping at my undershirt she tugs us both down on to the thin mattress. She bites her lip, silver eyes fixed on mine as she slithers back up the bed, curling her finger at me.

 

I feel almost animalistic as I follow, crawling on all fours. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears:  _catch her_ , it says to me,  _keep her forever_ , it begs.

 

I kiss her ankle as I reach it, pushing up her pant leg to press my lips to her calf. Her hips lift off the bed and I look up to see her fiddling with her pants buttons, teeth sinking into her lip as she manages it. I reach up to stop her hurried hands, kissing the ridge of her hip bone as I pull her pants down her legs, slowly, worshipping each inch of olive skin as it is revealed.

 

When they’re off I sit back to admire the view. Her legs are long, splayed wide to invite me between them. Shapely calves lead to shapely thighs and my breath catches at the sight of her cotton underpants. The nerves that had disappeared come back full force. My hands reach down to grip her ankles, thumbs tracing the curve of it.

 

“Hey,” Katniss says. I struggle to look at her, scared she’ll the terror in my face.

 

“Hey, Peeta,” she sits up, moves into my lap, arms circling my neck as she ducks her head to look into my eyes, “We’re doing this together, okay? If the snow outside says anything it’s that we’ve got all the time in the world, because I don’t think Prim will be trying to come home in that weather.”

 

I laugh, it’s a howling gale outside and I wouldn’t be able to make it a few feet past the front door let alone all the way home.

 

“Peeta,” she tilts my chin up, hands cup my cheeks, and I’m soothed by the assuredness in her eyes.

 

We lie back on the bed, her body angled under mine as we kiss and kiss. My arms are braced either side of her head so I can hold myself slightly above her, afraid that I will crush her. One languid leg winds its way around my hip to draw my erection against the thin material between her thighs.

 

She groans as I roll my hips into hers.

 

A hand slithers between us to unbutton my pants, two feet pushing the material down my legs so I don’t have to stop my movements as she undresses me.

 

Then we’re just in t-shirts and underpants.

 

I roll to my side, resting my head on one hand as I look down at her face. She’s flushed, braid falling apart. It’s the most beautiful she’s ever looked, so undone compared to her usual, serious composure.

 

“Show me,” I say, my own voice sounding foreign to my ears.

 

She blinks at me, a slow smirk forming as she takes my free hand, guides it up under her top. The loose material moves along with our movements, revealing toned stomach, the perfect curve of a hip descending into waistline. I watch our hands, a study in contrasts. The largeness of me against the smallness of her. I sigh at the feel of soft skin, marvel at the strength underneath it.

 

Then she cups my hand around her breast and it takes me a moment to remember how to breathe. Her hand drops away as my thumb flicks over the darkened tip. A moan curls from her lips as I test and tease the bud, pulling it between my thumb and forefinger, leaning down to take it between my teeth.

 

Her hands twine in the curls of my hair and my skin tingles as her nails scratch at the scalp. She holds me in place at her breast, crooning as my tongue explores the skin, sweeping across the curve of it. I pay equal attention to both, wanting to memorise every moment her body exists under me, beside me, every shift and rise and the way it seems to curl into me, worshipping me as I worship her.

 

She tugs me up to kiss me. Her tongue swirls in my mouth. It almost feels like we are breathing each other’s insides. 

 

Without instruction I press my hand further down her stomach, towards the line of her underpants. Once there my fingers tease the band, not quite sure if she’ll grant me entry or if I should just move forward.

 

“Peeta,” she sighs, pressing her hips upwards in a plea to explore further.

 

First, there’s the coarse curl of hair, then I find sleek wetness. She wants me. The physical proof of this makes something flare inside me, some kind of power, some kind of devotion. I want to do this for her forever, for as long as she’ll allow it.

 

My fingers creep further, brush against the bud that has her crying out. I repeat the motion, separating her lips a little to press down on it harder.

 

“Yes, yes, right there!”

 

Need coats her tongue like honey, oozing and thick and somehow sweet.

 

I move back down the bed, wanting a better view to figure out exactly what’s going on down there.

 

Katniss’ head is thrown back in the pillows, eyes tight shut, she doesn’t notice I’ve moved until my breath is fanning across the crotch of her panties. She whimpers at the feel of it and I’m overwhelmed with a desire to taste her here.

 

The flat of my tongue sweeps across the cotton, damp, just a hint of some earthy taste I already find addictive.

 

With two hands I drag the cotton down her legs, flicking them somewhere in the room before settling between her thighs. Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling as she watches through half lidded eyes over her still glistening breasts.

 

I lick the fingers of my right hand, reaching up to tweak one nipple between them before focusing all my attention on the heat of her in front of me.

 

Going half on instinct and half on what I’ve been unwillingly taught by my older brothers, I lean forward and tug that kernel of pleasure into my mouth.

 

Katniss shouts my name into the room, the sound reverberating along the walls. I want those walls to remember my name long after we leave them.

 

With my tongue and lips working her clit, two fingers tease her entrance. A brief look had me wondering a bit over the mechanics of this whole thing, but as I slide my fingers further in I feel the way her walls expand around me, cling to my fingers, seemingly vibrating with pleasure.

 

“Cu-curl them upward,” she gasps out after I do a few half-hearted thrusts. I do as told and am rewarding with my name on her lips.

 

_Peeta_. She says it like some sort of ancient incantation.

 

I have to grind my cock a little against the bed as I work her, desperate for some kind of friction.

  
Her body writhes beneath me, words become less and less coherent, muscles of her thighs, her centre, her stomach, clench and unclench with what I can only hope is blooming pleasure.

 

And then she freezes up, body going rigid, except for the cry escaping her lips. I can almost see it as it leaves her, the letters of my name swirling in the heated air of the room.

 

“Fuck,” is all she manages as she collapses back on the bed, pushing my head away as I continue to lap at her folds.

 

“C’mere.”

 

I do as told. The sight of her climaxing had me almost to the peak myself and I feel as though anything I do of my own right now will have consequences I don’t really want to consider.

 

Katniss kisses the corner of my lip, leaning over me as I fall back against the bed.

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

A lazy smile dozes on my lips, “Anytime.”

 

She laughs a little before sitting up and tugging off her top, leaving her naked. I move to sit up and she lets me just to tug off my shirt, but then she pushes against my chest, fingers splaying against my pecs.

 

“My turn.”

 

She pulls off my briefs and throws her left leg over my hips.

 

I can feel the heat and wetness of her against the base of my cock and the feeling has black swirls clouding my mind.

 

“Peeta,” she says, hands balancing on my stomach.

 

“After this, you’re mine? Okay?”

 

Her voice is oddly melodic, soft, but the look in her eyes is of a mother wolf, possessive, commanding.

 

“I was always yours, Katniss.”

 

She nods, lifts her hips and sinks down onto me.

 

Holy High Priestess.

 

“Always,” I groan, “I’m always yours.”

 

She hisses, lifts back up and sinks down onto me.

 

“Me too,” she says, “No one else. Just the two of us.”

 

–––––

 

After, she stays collapsed on top of me. I’m soft and still inside her. The proof of our union seeps down her thighs. My fingers curl and loop in the strands of hair splayed across my chest like a shadow.

 

Her fingers tease the lines of my arms, spidery and light.

 

“Do you mean it?” She says, startling my mind out of its self-satisfied bliss.  

 

“Mean what?”

 

“Always?” Her voice is small, unsure, worry creases my brow.

 

“Of course.”

 

I want her to look at me, but her face has always been too good at hiding her real meaning.

 

“No matter what?”

 

I sit up and pull her with me, tilting her chin to capture her lips in a soft kiss.

 

Resting my forehead against hers I say the three words I know I’ll never regret.

 

“No matter what.”

 

–––––

 

After that jacking myself off in the shower just doesn’t quite do it anymore and I go from seeing Katniss once a week to every other day. We’re both insatiable, finding any surface of her quiet cottage to make each other scream.

 

The first time she takes me inside her mouth I’m pressed against the kitchen sink and her knees go red against the cold kitchen tiles. When I come some of it seeps out of the corner of her lips and I lean down to swipe it off with my thumb. She takes it in her mouth, sucking off every last drop.

 

Prim almost catches us one day when I’m eating her out on the dining room table. Katniss flushes red from head to toe and I have to give Prim all three cookies to keep her distracted enough not to noticed how flustered we both are.

 

But three cookies aren’t enough to stop everyone from noticing what’s going on. And my worst fears are realised a few weeks later.

 

I’m washing up some baking pans so I can put the next lot of dough in the oven. My thoughts are mostly about Katniss’ naked breasts and the way they looked covered in the suds of the bathwater as I washed her hair.

 

The thought is so pleasant that at first I hardly notice that mother has stormed into the back room and seems about ready to start war.

 

“You fucking heathen,” she says, tugging on my arm to twist me away from the sink.

 

I see murder in her eyes.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t find out, you ungrateful little bastard.”

 

Slap!

 

I have to clutch my cheek with the ferocity of her strike.

 

“What?”

 

“You’ve been taking stock to the Dark Girl! Giving her hard earned goods just so she’ll fuck you.”

 

She picks up the rolling pin from the bench and hits my arm with it. Not too hard but hard enough to tell me there’s more to come.

 

Rye calls out from the other side of the room but mother whips towards him, “Get the fuck upstairs.”

 

I look over at him, he looks like he wants to do something, say something, but this has always been my burden to bear so I shake my head ‘no’ and he bites his lip before turning and heading up the stairs.

 

“Mrs. Cartwright saw you two kissing behind the Hob and warned me my son was going around with the town  _slut.”_

 

She emphasises the last word with a hit of the rolling pin against my side. Much harder, I groan at the contact. These are going to be some hard bruises to explain to Katniss.

 

“I didn’t believe her at first but I did a stocktake of the items and  _guess what I found_.”

 

She aims the rolling pin at my head but I manage to get my hands up in time. As it makes contact I feel my index finger bend back in a way that shouldn’t be possible, hear the bone crunch.

 

I scream out and she tells me to  _shut up_ , that this is my own fault.

 

She hits me a few times along my chest and ribs and I curl into myself, trying to get most of the blows on my arms.

 

I look up at the sound of the back door opening and immediately know it was a mistake as I just catch sight of the rolling pin coming towards my eye.

 

The pain of it has me collapsing to the ground with a cry, gripping the side of my face, pain blooming across my temple, down my cheek.

 

“What is going on here?”

 

My father.

 

Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and I’m so mad at myself for not being more careful, for letting mother think she could beat this out of me, for being weak.

 

“Your son is fucking that  _witch_.”

 

She hisses the word, an insult, but I feel it in the hint of fear that cracks the word that a part of her believes it’s true.

 

“Peeta,” his feet appear in front of me, and I feel him crouch beside me, trying to get me look up so he can see the wound.

 

“Get upstairs, we’ll talk later,” he says to his wife. She goes off in a huff and I know I’ll pay for this the next time we are alone - perhaps not in blows but with her words.

 

“I’m sorry, son,” dad says, carefully prying my hand away from my face.

 

He grimaces at the sight and I sigh. This is going to be much harder to explain.

 

“I forgot to readjust the books yesterday,” he says as he goes to the cold store to grab a block of ice.

 

Oh.

 

That explains why she hadn’t figured it out sooner.

 

We look up as something crashes on the floor above us.

 

After wrapping the ice in a cloth he presses it against my face, wincing along with me.

 

“Maybe you should go and stay at Katniss’ house tonight?”

 

I grimace, not ready to have this conversation with her.

 

“She’ll understand, Peeta.”

 

I nod my head, understanding that this is necessary, but still feeling anxiety grip my heart and twist at the thought of it all.

 

–––––

 

Dad gives me a bag full of clothes and some baked goods and I limp my way to Katniss’ cottage.

 

The more I move the more I realise that it hurts. Every breath pushes against the edges of my chest, igniting another spark of pain. I try and keep to the back streets as much as possible so that I don’t raise too many questions.

 

When I reach Katniss’ I realise that I’ve probably arrived during the time she goes hunting. It’s still morning and when I knock nobody answers. I momentarily contemplate going back home, but apart from the fear of what mother may do if she see’s me now, I’m simply in too much physical pain to make it.

 

So instead I slump in a heap on the doorstep, lean my head back against the door and close my eyes.

 

When I open them Katniss is crouching in front of me, gingerly brushing the curls from my forehead. My vision is slightly blurry, partly due to the fact that my left eye is practically swollen shut.

 

“Oh, Peeta,” she whispers, voice cracking. I try to reach out, to brush away what looks like a tear on her cheek, but I grimace with the effort of lifting.

 

“Shush, Peeta, it’s okay,” she stands, dropping her blood soaked hunting bag to the floor. I watch, as though through a gauzy lens, as the blood seeps into the lingering remnants of snow. It’s almost spring. I realise I should feel cold but I feel nothing, just numbness.

 

“Can you stand?” Katniss comes back into my field of view, her head bent over my shoulder. She’s opened the door behind me and is holding up my head. I nod weakly and grunt as she lifts my arm over her shoulders.

 

The feeling is like fire burning under my skin. I want to scream but my pounding head stops me from making any noise at all.

 

I’m on the bed and don’t remember the journey here. A smile tugs at my lips, I just want Katniss here in this bed with me. I don’t want anything else.

 

She’s taking off my shirt, gasping at each exposed bruise. I’m glad I can’t see them, glad I can’t realise the extent of how damaged I am in front of her.

 

I open eyes I hadn’t realised were closed. Katniss is painting some kind of paste onto the bruises, her brow is furrowed in concentration. I want to reach up and smooth away those frown lines. I try to lift my arm but it won’t move.

 

Is this a dream? It feels like that dream in the woods. Where I’m at the edge of the clearing and I can’t go further no matter how much I want to.

 

I wake again and for a moment I think it’s still a nightmare because the sky looks ablaze.

 

But it’s just that peak of sunset, the height of the sun’s demand to be remembered as we sink into night.

 

I’m aching all over but I can hear the sounds of Katniss pottering about the room next door so I force myself out of bed.

 

It’s as though I’ve aged forty years, everything creaks and groans, my bones sigh and my muscles quiver,  _lie down_ , they ask of me. But I want to see Katniss. I need to talk to Katniss.

 

On the other side of the door I find her in the kitchen, slicing the skin from her squirrels, dragging her knife down the length of their bellies, tugging out the intestines, the heart, the lungs, putting them in little jars. I wonder what she does with them.

 

“Hey,” I say, leaning against the door jamb and trying not to groan at the feel of my bruised shoulder making contact with the wood. It’s only now that I realise I’m in nothing but my briefs, but I’m beyond any kind of embarrassment. I don’t care if she sees me.

 

Katniss startles, the knife slips and catches the tip of her finger. I cringe at the bloom of red liquid that bursts from her skin, leaping forward to grip the wound in my hand, stem the flow.

 

“Thanks,” she whispers, looking up at me through that unreal fringe of lashes. I try to imagine capturing the way those lashes feel on my skin with a scrounged stick of charcoal. Butterfly kisses, my father used to call them, as we’d flutter our lashes against each other’s cheeks. I’d giggle an innocent, boyish giggle and mother would scream down the hall that it was time to sleep.

 

But I’d go to bed with a smile on my face, the feel of those butterfly kisses too light and too precious to be crushed by a cruel fist.

 

“Always,” I manage.

 

Her lips tilt in what I think is meant to be a smile, but warble at the last minute and I’m worried she’s going to cry.

 

“It’s my mother.”

 

I keep my grip tight on her finger and she keeps her eyes fixed on me.

 

“She always hated me and I never really got it until,” I think of Prim, the cookies, the softness in my mother’s eyes, “Well, until recently.”

 

I grab at some piece of scrap cloth and tear a length off, wind it around the wound.

 

“She already had two sons, she just wanted a daughter.”

  
Katniss shakes her head at me as though she wants to say something but I shush her, pressing a kiss to the tip of her finger.

 

“Anyway, I guess she never forgave me for being born a boy, never let me forget that I was a useless burden.”

 

A calloused finger trails up my arm, circles a bruise forming on my bicep and I can’t suppress the shudder that follows. She pulls back sharply, still not speaking.

 

“It’s usually not this bad, not since I got big anyway.”

 

She leans forward, kisses the bruise on my arm, on my shoulder, on my ribs, the corner of my eye.

 

“Normally she just says nasty things, but today,” I sigh, this is the part I’m most reluctant to admit, “Today she found out about us, and she wasn’t happy.”

 

Sinking back to her feet she tucks her arms around her waist, but I refuse to let her believe this is her fault for even a second. So I wrap my arms around her, hiss through the pain, and relish the feel of her breath skittering across my neck.

 

“The worst part was that I didn’t get to tell her that I love you.”

 

She half sobs half laughs against me, and I smile into her hair.

 

“That’s a weird way to tell me you love me.”

 

I chuckle, ignore the burning pain of my ribs against my skin.

 

“Yeah, well, I just need you to know that.”

 

Pressing a kiss to the juncture of my shoulder and my neck she whispers something unintelligible and says something that has my heart skipping a beat.

 

“Well, I love you, too, Peeta Mellark, now go put some pants on before my baby sister gets home and gets the wrong idea.”

 

To be honest, I think I’d prefer she got the wrong idea and I somehow acquired these bruises with Katniss, but I do as told. Just in time it seems because I’m fastening the last button as she bursts into the room in a flurry.

 

She starts chattering on to Katniss about her day at school and how the Hardy boy showed her some cool trick with a pencil. But she freezes at the sight of me.

 

“What happened to you?”

 

Her gaze narrows, picking out all the bruises, lingers on the one on my face. I haven’t even seen it yet, have no idea how bad it really is.

 

“Who did this to you?” Her voice comes out biting and I’m startled for a moment.

 

“Prim –” Katniss tries to cut in but her sister’s voice gets more and more shrill.

 

“Who did this? Who would do this?”

 

Tears start to leak from the corners of her eyes, become more insistent, she slams her hands on the table.

 

“Tell me!”

 

Katniss starts to cry too, frustrated tears making her eyes turn red. I have no idea how this escalated so quickly.

 

“It was his mother.” 

 

Prim screams, runs to me and wraps her arms around me, sobbing against me. I pat the plaits of her hair and look up at Katniss, hoping she’ll be able to explain to me what’s happening.

 

But she just shakes her head, going back to cooking dinner as I try and soothe her distraught sister.

 

“It’s okay, Prim, it’s okay.”

 

Prim hardly lets go of me all throughout the meal, resting her head on my arm, little sniffles escaping her every now and again. Katniss tries to distract but I can sense that something is off.

 

When it’s time for bed Prim makes me sleep in the middle of the bed and both girls cuddle up into my sides.

 

Katniss whispers  _I love you_  into my skin with soft kisses.

 

Prim falls asleep quickly.

 

And I look out the window at the full moon, eerie and all-knowing in the ink of black sky.

 

 –––––

 

I go home two days later, when I no longer feel like I’d rather be dead than walking. Most of my remaining time at Katniss’ was spent in this half-daze where it was difficult to differentiate the real from the not real.

 

I remember Katniss humming as she rubbed ointment into my wounds. I remember being fed, bathed at one point. I remember looking out the bedroom window in my moments of wakefulness, the moon beginning to shy away from our sights.

 

But it’s everything else that is fuzzy. My father holding my hand, Prim screaming in the next room, my mother storming into the bedroom with her rolling pin. Real, or not real?

 

Trudging through the mudroom I’m greeted by Rye pulling my head into the crook of his elbow, fist messing up my hair.

 

“Gee, I missed you, too, Rye,” I laugh once I manage to wrestle out of his grasp, though I know it’s only because he lets me. Rye always was a better wrestler.

 

He shrugs and laughs but won’t meet my eye. It’s all the apology I really need.

 

The laughter dies quickly.

 

“Mother’s sick.”

 

 –––––

 

Mother is more than just sick.

 

At dinner one night, the four of us eat stew with some of Katniss’ squirrel meat and a loaf of fresh bread. We all try and ignore the fact that this is a meal mother would never have let us have.

 

The silence is broken only by her groans.

 

–––––

 

Rye and I are kneading long stretches of bread dough when he says under his breath, “It’s about time really.”

 

I cough and feel his shoulders lift beside me.

 

“Her soul was too black, I think. Poisoned herself.”

 

–––––

 

She dies on the first day of spring.

 

Delly’s over when it happens, trying to keep up my spirits with boring town gossip.

 

At this point everyone knows about Katniss and I, though I’ve hardly seen her since mother became ill.

 

When she drops by to make her deliveries she shoots me some sad look, forehead creased, mouth opening to say something before she simply plants a quick kiss on my cheek and scurries off.

 

We hear a cry and run upstairs to her bed side.

 

Her breath is short, but eyes clearer than I’ve seen them since she got sick.

 

She looks up at me. Eyes narrow.

 

“It was your witch, she did this to me.”

 

Her voice is raspy but I can hear how much she believes the words she’s saying.

 

Delly’s hand flies to her mouth.

 

“Just like the Old Magic. Your bitch cursed me,” she lifts her left hand and I feel sick at the sight of it. The skin has turned black from the tip of her finger and I can see it creeping towards the last few beats to her heart.

 

And her last words:

 

“I never even wanted you.”

 

–––––

 

We bury in the cemetery a few days later. It’s located behind Snow’s manner. I try to concentrate on the words of the government official thanking her for her service to the union of Panem but all I can see is Snow standing on his balcony, he sips from a glass and I can’t read his expression.

 

At the end of the service he points first to his head, then chest, then each shoulder. And then I swear he looks right at me before turning back into the shadowed remnants of his grandeur.

 

Prim comes to the service but not Katniss. Rumours have run like wildfire through the town and I try not to get angry at Delly but I haven’t spoken to her since she ran screaming from the bakery after mother finally succumbed to her illness.

 

They both cry.

 

I find myself unable.

 

When I sleep that night I dream of my mother clawing back out through the dirt, her body disfigured and filthy when she drags me from my bed, tells me I have to go with her. And then she buries us both, eternity in a box with the person we each hate the most.

 

–––––

 

The next time I see Katniss I drag her into the storeroom and kiss away the terror in my heart. The longer I go without seeing her the more I fear that someone in the town will have gotten hold of the rumours and killed her in the night.

 

“I’m yours,” I say through clenched teeth, unbuttoning her pants, “Still yours.”

 

My hand dives behind the cotton of her underpants, fingers swirl over her clit before thrusting into a warmth that makes me want to cry at how much I’ve missed it.

 

“Don’t leave me,” I beg, a choked sob rising as she comes around my fingers.

 

She kisses the tears from my cheeks.

 

“Never.”

 

–––––

 

Delly comes by to try and apologise but I tell her I’m busy.

 

In fairness, I actually am really busy. Ever since mother was just  _sick_ more people have started coming to the bakery and more often. It’s either because they pity us or because it’s finally a pleasant place to visit.

 

She lays a hand on my forearm, “Peeta, please.”

 

The bell over the door tinkles and Prim walks in.

 

“Oh,” she says, looking at the spot where we touch.

 

I pull away from Delly and sigh, shaking my head in an indication for her to leave. She does so but not before I can see the tears forming in her eyes. I dig my nails into my palm. I should go after her. Tell her it’s okay. But I remember Snow standing on his balcony, the way Mrs. Crawford practically hissed at me about  _correct behaviour._ So I don’t.

 

“How was school, Prim?”

 

She seems startled when I talked to her, eyes still fixed on that point on my forearm. I rub it self-consciously.

 

“It was good,” her voice is back to that old bubbliness.

 

“Do you want a cookie?”

 

She nods her head, lips broadening to a grin as she points at a snickerdoodle. It’s an old recipe I found in one of dad’s books, one that I’d never have tried, well,  _before_ , because of the costly ingredients it uses.

 

“Katniss told me to ask you to come for dinner,” she says after she’s almost gobbled half of the fluffy cinnamon biscuit.

 

“Yeah, sure, need me to bring anything?”   
  
Prim licks cinnamon and sugar off her fingers, pointing again at the snickerdoodles.

 

I laugh and promise to bake an extra batch.

 

Just as I’m heading to the back room to finish clearing up for the day and to get these cookies underway, I hear Prim’s throat clear from the front.

 

“Peeta?” She asks, all wide blue eyes and sugar coated lips, “Why was Delly crying?”

 

I sigh, not wanting to explain it all, “She did something to upset me.”

 

Her head tilts, eyes narrow just slightly, before she skips off with an “Okay!”

 

–––––

 

Dinner at Katniss’ that evening feels like a celebration. She’s cooked venison and has fruits and vegetables laid out like a banquet. We spread Prim’s goat’s cheese on bread and eat it with slices of fresh, juicy, green apples.

 

I managed to claim a bottle of some dark red alcoholic drink - a gift from mother’s funeral - and it sloshes in our cups as we eat, filling us with a lightness I haven’t felt for months.

 

Katniss lets Prim have a sip but she scrunches her nose in distaste and looks at us like we’re crazy for liking it.

 

Slender fingers squeeze my thigh, tease the inseam of my pants and I struggle not to kiss her full on the lips, tell Prim she has to leave because I’m hungry for something else now.

 

Then we laugh over still-warm snickerdoodles while Prim tells us about her adventures in Mrs. Cartwright’s classroom. I think of Delly and my gut turns.

 

But there’s a heat in Katniss’ eyes when she catches my own and for a moment nothing else matters in the world.

 

Prim goes to sleep and I linger under the pretense of helping clean the kitchen.

 

Every touch between us has my skin burning, her hip bumping into mine, fingers on elbows, pinky toes resting beside each other. She could be treating me for some giant gash in my leg and I’m sure I’d be thinking only of the feel of her skin on mine, the proximity of her hands to my cock.

 

Her touch is addictive.

 

When we’re done I kiss her in the moonlight of their living room. My fingers tangle in the ink of her hair, pulling it free from her braid so I can get lost.

 

I take off her top as though it’s some delicate garment, kiss her breasts, the underside of them, imagine them full of milk for our child. I kneel to take off her pants, kiss the insides of her thighs, the thatch of dark hair, her clit. She gasps, shoves her fist into her mouth to keep quiet.

 

I pull one leg over my shoulder and her hands fold into my hair to keep her steady. My hands knead her backside as I lick and suck at her.

 

Her legs begin to shake and she collapses over me.

 

I grasp her hips and lift her off me, laying her out in front of me as she tries to catch her breath.

 

Moon shadows play over her skin, it almost appears white in the light, then sinks into blackness. She looks up at me where I’m still kneeling, and this time I wrap her leg around my hip as I sink into her, holding her hips up off the ground.

 

Her eyes trap mine and I can’t look anywhere else. She clamps her muscles around my cock, sinks her teeth into her lip so hard I’m sure it bleeds as I swirl my thumb over her clit.

 

She only closes her eyes as she comes, releasing me from the spell.

 

I look up, the door to their bedroom is cracked open, blue eyes widen and disappear.

 

I blink, did I imagine it?

 

When I come, I release onto Katniss’ stomach.

 

She plays with it, tracing idle patterns into her skin as I collapse back onto my knees to watch her.

 

–––––

 

We wake before the sun rises. Both of us with body clocks set to some unearthly hour.

 

Katniss mumbles nonsense sentences against my neck. Prim yawns and stretches like a cat, eyes flicking away from mine.

 

“So how about breakfast in the bakery?”

 

I’m met with grumbles but I feel like pancakes, and as soon as I say the word Prim wants pancakes too. And then we’re bundle ourselves in wool against the still crisp spring air and make our way to the bakery.

 

I’ve never walked through town at this time of day. Half the sky is still scattered with star-dust melting into the slowly warming light of the sun as it declares its return.

 

Dad greets us all at the door with a smile and makes hot chocolate on the stovetop. Prim oos and ahs at the gas stove. Katniss’ lips twist and I tug her into my side as I make the batter.

 

She pulls a bag of blueberries out of the pocket of her leather jacket and mutters something about equal shares, a flush rising up her cheeks and I kiss her on the lips.

 

Rye whoops as he walks in, scratching at the winter flab of his belly.

 

It all feels easy. I wonder if I can make it last.

 

We eat pancakes with blueberries and syrup. Prim charms my brothers, while dad and Katniss seem to exchange an entire conversation in raised eyebrows and half-smiles.

 

“So are you lovely ladies staying to help set up this morning?” Rye asks, throwing a wink in Prim’s direction that has her red as a cherry.

 

Katniss looks at me with a raised eyebrow, but I try not to make it obvious how much I’d love it if she joined us.

 

“I could give those squirrels a break for one day.”

 

We all laugh and she huffs, “I’m serious.”

 

Dad wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, “I know, sweetheart.”

 

Crossing her arms, “I hope you don’t expect me to talk to customers.”

 

Rye wraps an arm over her shoulder, “Wouldn’t even dream of it.”

 

–––––

 

Okay, so Katniss might be good at cooking stew and dicing up dead animals, but a baker she is not.

 

She’s up to her elbows in dough and arguing that flour and icing sugar do look suspiciously similar when Prim calls out to me from where she’d been put to task in the front.

 

“It’s Delly,” she says, poking her head through the door, her eyes flicker between us, something unreadable passes between the two sisters, “She was wondering if she could talk to you.”

 

I swallow the frog in my throat, “Tell her to come through to the store room.”

 

Wiping my hands off on a dishtowel I try to catch Katniss’ eye, but she just turns back to the ruined icing.

 

I should have realised she would know who it was who started this latest batch of rumours. It’s been winter, so she’s been telling me the decline in trade was simply due to the lack of actual animals, but I realise she’s been hiding that she knew. That it was my best friend who’s made her the town pariah.

 

“This won’t take long,” I mutter, marching off to the storeroom.

 

Delly comes soon after and stands with her arms crossed behind her back.

 

It’s awkward and I want to fix things but I couldn’t even begin to figure out how.

 

“I really am sorry, Peeta.”

 

I fiddle with the label on some Capitol distributed product, too distracted to figure out the letters.

 

“It’s not really me you have to apologise to, Delly.”

 

She sighs, “You’re right. I’ll apologise to th- to Katniss. I’ll try and make this right.”

 

No matter how angry I am, I can’t help but pull her into a hug.

 

“I love you, Peeta.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

I find I can’t say the words back. They belong to someone else.

 

Delly presses a kiss to my cheek, before ducking back out of the storeroom.

 

I give them a moment.

 

When I walk back out I have to stop myself from laughing out loud at the expression on Katniss’ face. Delly has her wrapped in a bear hug, arms flopping useless at her sides.

 

_Help Me!_ She mouths.

 

Prim stands in the doorway and watches with careful, nervous eyes.

 

When Delly finally pulls away, Katniss reaches for her arm, squeezing lightly, “It’s okay.”

 

“Thank you, I’ll fix this, I promise.”

 

She walks out the kitchen, waving at us as she goes, thanks Prim for the loaves and says she’ll see her in class.

 

Prim smiles.

 

It’ll all be fine.

 

–––––

 

Delly’s arm is broken.

 

Apparently she fell down the stairs on her way up to the apartment. Slipped on something. Broke her arm.

 

I think of the way Katniss touched her arm before she left. I force the thought from my head. I think of how when I was injured she said she went to trade at the bakery and my mother came to the back door. I wonder if she touched her hand? I don’t think about it. I  _can’t_  think about it.

 

Katniss isn’t…  _a witch_.

 

But when I have the dream again that night it’s Katniss in the centre of the circle. She’s crying as she slits the throat of the chicken. Whispers _“I’m sorry_.” Looks up at me and I hear a crack in the barrier that has prevented me from entering the clearing.

 

_crack_

 

_CRACK_

 

I wake, look out the window, the forest is there, the forest that holds the remnants of the dark magic, the magic left behind by the Witches. I look closer and see Katniss standing at the edge, looking up at my window. Her hands peak out of the sleeves of her jacket, her hands are covered in blood.

 

–––––

 

“The foxes must be back,” Delly says, trying to get the shutters open with one hand.

 

“Oh?” I ask, my heart thump thumps against my chest. Can she hear it?

 

“Yeah, the Gardiner’s this time. Heard old Chucky complaining about the missing chook on the way over this morning.”

 

She says it so lightly that it’s almost suspicious. But she looks at me with a shrug and a smile that says  _what can ya do?_  And I know I imagined the suspicion into her voice.

 

I look at the sling holding her arm up.

 

“So nothing suspicious about the chickens, then?”

 

My voice shakes and I cover it up with a cough.

 

“Well you and I know it’s nothing, but y’know,” her eyes flicker downward, “A bunch of people think it’s her. Say it lines up with the full moon and all that. Apparently Snow was at the tavern last night, told everyone to watch out for the full moon, that’s when the um,  _witches-”_ she whispers this word, “- are most active.”

 

Snow knows.

 

Snow  _knows._

 

Snow knows and he wants everyone else to figure it out.

 

–––––

 

As soon as I can convince dad to let me go, I leave for Katniss’.

 

She’s not there when I arrive. I’m too late. I’m planning the speech I’m going to give Snow, demanding he give her back, that he can’t blackmail her into slavery, when Katniss appears at the front door.

 

“Oh,” I say feeling not just a little dumb, “You’re home.”

 

She looks flustered, “Yeah I was doing some tanning out back, sorry it took me a while to get to the door.”

 

“Um,” I stuff my hands into my pockets, “No problem.”

 

Katniss raises an eyebrow at me, eyes flick over my face. Then she sighs.

 

“Alright, we better talk.”

 

I sit at her table, hands still stuffed in pockets, feeling rude when I realise that I haven’t brought anything.

 

She potters about for a while, boils the kettle, prepares a plate of some fruit and some cheese, doesn’t look at me, won’t look at me.

 

Eventually she sits down across for me, reaches for my hand on the table, hesitates, pulls back.

 

I should grab it, tell her it’s fine, but I don’t.

 

Because I think of Delly and of mother and a part of me - a part that I desperately hate - is scared.

 

“Are you a witch?”

 

She winces, clearly not expecting this to be so blunt, but I just want to figure everything out and stop feeling so in the dark.

 

“Sort of,” she mumbles.

 

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

 

Standing, she reaches for the book on her kitchen shelf that I noticed so long ago and plonks it down in front of me.

 

I open it to the front page to see a message scrawled in dark ink:  _To my darling Aeson Everdeen._

 

“Your father?”

 

She nods.

 

“He was a witch of the Old Magic, but he only used it for healing. That’s how he met my mother, she was the daughter of the apothecary.”

 

Katniss leans against the table, hip jutting out. She turns the page and I find a list of contents, all handwritten:

 

_For a headache_

 

_For a bleeding wound_

 

_For a bruise_

 

_For difficulty conceiving_

 

_For an unwanted child_

 

“It’s his spell book,” She turns to an earmarked page and I find the tea she’d given me the day I felt sick, the specific instructions for instilling the magic in the herbs, the correct method of brewing.

 

“My father was a much greater witch than I am, he refused to teach me the dark magic. He travelled a lot, as a healer, to different villages. I think he was searching for other witches. My mother would grow terribly sad when he was gone - she had been cast out when she fell pregnant with me - out of wedlock and with a black-skinned man.” 

 

I can imagine it. People don’t like different anymore.

 

I flip through the book and find a plant glossary, charcoal drawings accompanied by text explaining when and where to find them, how to pick them or ensure that more will grow.

 

“So it would just be the two of us, sometimes Mr. Abernathy would come by and do some version of looking after me when she couldn’t manage to get out of bed.”

 

A picture of two mushrooms has a warning underneath:  _Do not confuse these!_

 

“She was too lonely, so she slept with a man from town who convinced her my father had tricked her into loving him. That’s when she fell pregnant with Prim.”

 

At the back of the drawing is a sketch of Katniss as a child, I trace the double braids, the upturned nose, curious eyes still innocent to the nature of the world.

 

“When my father returned and discovered her pregnant he cursed the child, condemned it’s soul to darkness, the Old Magic, incapable of ever learning to control it.”

 

What?

 

“When Prim was born, my mother bled out in the bed, no matter what the healers tried to do they couldn’t fix her. And Prim just lay in the bed beside her, blinking up at the world she would be intent on destroying with a smile on her face.”

 

“Katniss,” I reach out for her hand, “I had no idea.”

 

She looks down at my fingers searching for hers with wide eyes, “That’s why I kill the chickens. I call on the High Priestess every full moon and plead with her to suppress Prim’s magic, but when you were injured I completely forgot.”

 

“And Delly’s arm?”

 

Katniss’ eyes widen as though she hadn’t considered it, “It doesn’t always work, as I said my magic isn’t very good, and Prim is much stronger so if she’s especially angry she can overpower my magic. That’s what happened to Madge, she thought Madge was trying to steal me away so she burnt the house to the ground.”

 

“It makes sense,” I say, startled by how much it really does make sense this way, “She only cares about you. Only looks out for you.”

 

She nods, lips pressed tight together, “At the time the curse was laid, I was the only person in the world that my father loved. I guess it carried through with her.”

 

“Snow knows you’re a witch,” I cut off the conversation, remembering the real reason I came here.

 

“Snow knows, he went to the tavern last night and told everyone that they better watch out because it’s the full moon and then the Gardiners were missing a chicken.”

 

Katniss pulls away, paces the floor.

 

“I’d heard about him before I came, his slave girls are witches too, he keeps them there under threat of burning.”

 

“Does fire really work?”  
  


“Yes,” her voice cracks and she looks back to the book, “My father was burned. After he cursed my mother.”   
  


I slam the book shut.

 

“We have to leave then, we have to go.”

 

“Why do you have to go?” Asks a quiet voice from the open front door.

 

Prim stands there at the front door and I have no idea how long she’s been listening. She looks at Katniss with a tilt of her head, a smile.

 

“Where are you going?” She asks again.

 

“I forgot to bring something,” I say, voice even, “We were hoping to get there and back before you got home.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Katniss smiles, “School finished early?”

 

I wince and the note of strain in her voice, wonder if Prim does too.

 

“No. It’s normal time.”

 

I look at the clock above the fire, this is exactly the time that Prim always comes home.

 

“We must have been enjoying your goat’s cheese too much, Prim, lost track of time,” I lie, hoping she doesn’t notice that the cheese hasn’t been touched.

 

She looks at it, smiles at me, “Lady’s a good goat.”

 

“What do you want from the bakery, Little Duck, Peeta can go and get something for us while we prepare dinner, how does that sound?” Katniss swoops in, tucks the tails of Prim’s shirt back into her skirt, kisses her temple.

 

“Chocolate chip cookies,” she says, looking at the cheese again, the untouched fruit plate, “And some cheese buns.”

 

“On it,” I make for the door, desperate to get out of there, to come up with a plan somewhere in the next thirty minutes it’ll take me to walk there and back, “See you ladies soon.”

 

Katniss grabs her purse and puts a few coins in my hand but I know that it’s just so she has an excuse to come near me. It’s been a long time since we kept track of who owes who. I bring baked goods and she brings just about everything else.

 

She leans into kiss my cheek and mumbles against the skin, “Don’t come back. Stay at the bakery, I’ll come over tonight.”

 

I plaster a smile on my face and walk out the door, calling over my shoulder when I’m halfway up the drive, “Wait, Katniss, Prim! I just remembered dad needs my help cleaning the ovens,” I march back up to the door and drop the coins in Katniss’ hands, “I’ll bring treats tomorrow, promise.”

 

Over Katniss’ shoulder I catch Prim’s eye. A shudder runs up my spine.

 

–––––

 

When I get back to the bakery, Snow is waiting at the front counter.

 

Like this day could get any creepier.

 

He looks at me with this kind of half-smile, white hair practically glowing in the afternoon light.

 

“Peeta, is it?”

 

His voice is both imposing and reedy. Like it’s getting to the last of the words it’s capable of speaking, lifetime quota almost reached.

 

“Coriolanus, right?” I fire back, not willing to just accept his sudden presence in the village with my usual politeness.

 

“Hm,” he purses his lips.

 

“What would you like?” I ask, forcing him to at least pretend he’s here as a customer.

 

His black, beady eyes peruse the offerings, linger on cookies and pastries and long, thin bread rolls.

 

“I would like,” he starts and I decide he sounds like a snake. You’re equally drawn in and repulsed by the hiss of his voice.

 

“I would like to know what spell she performed on you to make you love her, maybe I can convince one of my girls to love me.”

 

He smiles at me, if what he does can be called a smile. Thin lips spread even thinner, curling up at the edges, pushing into his cheeks that are covered in spidery red and purple lines. I shake my head in disbelief.

 

“Oh, that’s sweet,” he says, “You believe she actually loves you.”

 

Snow points at an apricot danish, it’s centre like a little sun ready to be split open.

 

“If you give her to me, I’ll protect her from the hysteria.”

 

He says it as easily as ordering a loaf of bread, “I’ll pay you for her.”

 

“Not a chance.” 

 

Snow places a handful of gold coins on the benchtop, far more than what the danish is worth, even if it is one of the most expensive items on the shelves.

 

He simply smiles at me and I want to smash the danish in his face.

 

“Shame,” if only he sounded upset, “Keep the change.”

 

–––––

 

All through dinner I can’t speak, can hardly eat. My dad drops his hand on my shoulder and asks if anything’s wrong but I just shrug and mumble something about being tired.

 

He lets me lie and I slink off to bed after washing up.

 

Rafferty almost never stays here anymore, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s about to announce a wedding to his girlfriend. And Rye normally pretends to sleep for a few hours before sneaking off to whatever girl he’s currently seeing.

 

Tonight he doesn’t even pretend to sleep, just does the sneaking, and I’m grateful that if Katniss does show up we’ll at least have the room to ourselves.

 

I couldn’t sleep even if I tried anyway. I can only think of Prim and Snow and how I have absolutely no plan.

 

The hallway clock strikes midnight and my door creaks open.

 

“Peeta?” Katniss whispers to the dark. I blink at her silhouetted form.

 

She shuts the door and crawls into bed beside me.

 

“Your dad let me in,” she says. We turn onto our sides to face each other. As my eyes adjust to the dark I can make out more of her face. It looks different, more sunken.

 

“Snow offered to pay me for you.”

 

She sucks in a sharp breath and lays her hand in the space between us.

 

“You should have accepted,” she says, idly tugging at my hand to interlock our fingers.

 

I squeeze her fingers, tuck her head into the crook of my neck, “Apart from the fact that I sincerely hope you’re joking -” I tug at her braid and she half laughs, half cries, I hug her tighter, “- That is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard. Who would look after Prim?”

 

I feel her sigh against my naked chest, she shuffles closer, throws a leg over my hip as though I can be distracted so easily from this conversation.

 

Wrapping my arm around her back I hold her tight against me, “We have to leave Katniss. We can take Prim with us, we can go into the woods where no-one will follow.”

 

She shakes her head, “What will we do for bread? For clothes? What about your family, Peeta?”

 

“They’ll understand, I can come and trade with them at night, we only have to go a few hundred metres in and no one will ever come looking.”

 

“Okay,” she kisses my pec, “But if Prim ever gets too dangerous, I’m taking her. I could never forgive myself if she hurt you.”

 

I look down at her, silver eyes glinting in the moonlight.

 

“Okay, we’ll leave tomorrow.”

 

Then talking is done. She kisses me, soft and slow. I meet her tongue with my own, brief touches in the open moments of our lips.

 

She hikes her leg up higher and I notice for the first time that she’s wearing a dress, the silken feel of it slipping up her thigh, shifting under my skin.

 

I tug at the strap, it’s some kind of flimsy nightgown and I’m part breathless at the thought of her walking through town wearing it.

 

“It was my mother’s,” she says as I finger the flimsy material, “I wasn’t sure if this would be the last time I saw you.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” I lean down to kiss her breast, my heart thudding uncomfortably at her words.

 

She pushes down against my erection and I moan. We’re only separated by the material of our underpants, her barely-there nightgown.

 

I kiss her other breast, her neck, drag her earlobe between my teeth and feel whole at the sound of her moan in my ear.

 

She reaches a hand into my briefs and tugs at the hard flesh, teasing the tip with her thumb. I grunt into her skin.

 

The leg over my hip presses against my arse, our hips rolling against each other as the heat of her hand, her core against my cock starts to have my brain running haywire. 

 

I pull her nightgown up over her hip, run my fingers along her hip, tug aside her panties.

 

She moans into my ear and the sound of has my heart thrumming.

 

“Please, Peeta,” she begs, pulling me out of my briefs, rubbing the head against her folds, her clit. I can feel how wet she is, how much she needs me, how much I need her.

 

Life was nothing before her.

 

So I push in, the edge of her panties sliding along the side of my cock as I fill her. She cries out, bites my shoulder to swallow the sound.

 

In this position it’s not exactly hard thrusts. We don’t move much, I stay practically entirely sheathed inside of her. Her hips roll against mine, her breasts against my chest, her lips limp against my neck.

 

She grips my shoulders, tugs at my hair. I just want to fall into her, to live in this moment forever.

 

“I’m coming,” she rasps, “I’m coming, come with me.”

 

I can only manage a nod, try to pull out but she clamps around me and we come together.

 

Black spots my vision.

 

I fall back against the pillow and draw her on top of me.

 

“Love you,” she mumbles, breaths puffing against the dark blond hairs of my chest, before I hear her breathing even out, long and languid as she succumbs to sleep.

 

I blink to keep my eyes open, trail my fingers across her shoulders and back, admire the messy line of her braid as it trails across her shoulder, over my bed sheets.

 

I wonder if this is what life will be like in the woods. If I’ll get to wake with her beside me each day.

 

I decide that even if that’s all we ever have, it’s enough.

 

–––––

 

When I wake, the sky outside is a burnt orange.

 

“Mmm,” I mumble, “Katniss wake up, it’s sunrise.”

 

She wipes the drool from her chin and I laugh, kiss the morning breath away from her.

 

She sniffs for a minute, “Is something burning in the bakery?”

 

I sniff too, the scent is definitely something burning, like the oven’s too hot and the wood is scorching.

 

Then we hear screams.

 

“Katniss!”

 

She tears out of bed, pulls on one of my tshirts, it falls to her thighs, she drags a sweater over the top.

 

“Katniss!” The screech tears through the village square.

 

I run to my window to see a fire burning in the centre of the square, a crowd of people beginning to gather around it.

 

Snow stands in the centre, his two girls holding either of Prim’s arms. She’s kicking and screaming Katniss’ name, her hands are tied behind her back.

 

“Oh fuck oh fuck,” Katniss rushes out of the room.

 

I snap into action, tug on some clothes and fly down the stairs after Katniss before she can do something like get herself killed.

 

I manage to grab her and hold her to me as she reaches the bottom of the bakery steps.

 

The crowd keeps growing, still rubbing the sleep crud from their eyes.

 

“There is a witch in our midsts!” Snow hisses, only heard because everyone manages to stay quiet, desperate to hear what he has to say.

 

A murmur spreads across the crowd, _the Dark girl_ , they say, look over to where we stand.

 

“Reveal yourself,  _witch,_ ” he says, looking over at us too before gazing at the flames, “Or your sister will suffer.”

 

Katniss turns, looks at me, I shake my head, beg her not to go, but she leans in and whispers into my ear, “Trust me.”

 

And I know there’s nothing else I can do.

 

“Okay,” she cries, putting her hands up, “Okay, just let my sister go. She’s - she’s innocent.”

 

Snow smiles wickedly, his lip curling, he motions at his two girls to undo Prim’s ties as Katniss moves towards him.

 

It all happens so fast, that I really only remember the details when Katniss later recounts it to me at a cabin her father had built in the woods, far away from the bakery, far away from Snow.

 

The moment her ropes are untied it’s as though a switch has been flipped, Prim screams into sky and turns on Snow, gripping his shoulders and yelling incantations into his face.

 

Wind bellows around us, whipping the flames higher and higher.

 

Snow screams in agony, and we see blackness leech across his skin as Prim continues to scream. She pushes him forward, away from Katniss.

 

His whole body begins to shrivel, waste away under the ferocity of her touch.

 

But when he collapses, it’s into the flames, and he takes Prim with him.

 

Her final scream of  _“Katniss!”_ has the birds fly up from the woods in a cloud of black, they circle the sky, squawking and wailing. The flames grow hot and dark. Katniss collapses to the ground, too close to the ever expanding fire and I run for her, drag her away, heat licks at our skin leaving behind what will later be matching pink-slicked scars.

 

And the last dark witch of Panem burns.

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't hate me, come hang out on tumblr at coalstewart


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